


An Arrest

by asparagusmama



Series: Seasons AU - extras! [9]
Category: Inspector Morse (TV), Lewis - Fandom
Genre: Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-09
Updated: 2011-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparagusmama/pseuds/asparagusmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2010, Hathaway prompts Lewis into remembering an arrest...</p><p>1994, Morse and Lewis' investigations are going nowhere...</p><p>Underage tag - no not like that, Morse and Lewis are the rescuers!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Arrest

**Author's Note:**

> Morse and Lewis were created by and belongs to the wonderful Colin Dexter
> 
> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV, as does Inspector Morse.
> 
> Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....

Robbie Lewis and James Hathaway lay curled up together on the hotel bed, a second attempt at a romantic weekend away. The first had been a bit of a disaster, what with a murder two doors down and still on their territory, so to speak. This time they were in Sussex, a beautiful spa hotel over looking the Downs, a half an hour drive from Brighton.

James’ snuggled into his boss, head on his chest, practising ‘Robbie’ in his head.

“Sir,” he said. Damn! He will get this Robbie business right.

Robbie sniggered dirtily.

“Mistake,” James said hurriedly. “I have a confession to make.”

“Oh, aye, what’s that then? You’re secretly a baron? An MI5 agent? What?”

“No. This is serious. I’ve been keeping this secret and...”

“What?” Robbie sat up, pushing James off him. James looked up, a bit miffed. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“What then pet?”

“We met, once before.”

“I’ve known you five years, stop talking as if this is a one night stand.”

“No! I mean... Maybe you remember?”

“What? What do I remember?”

“When you were a sergeant, back in 1994, with Morse. I think you were looking for witnesses in a murder investigation. Instead, you found me.”

“You?” questioned Robbie, a spark of memory jumping in his mind...

 

* * *

 

Lewis stood in Morse’s office. It had been another long, unproductive day in their current case, a murder. It hadn’t been the typical Oxford murder that Strange gave his boss; this was more like something from a 1970s TV cop show, or at least, something the Met. would be more used to dealing with. A criminal come businessman with probable gangland connections had been murdered at the Randolph. A young woman, a prostitute in his employ, had also been murdered. Her friends, two more prostitutes, had possibly witnessed the shooting. Morse and he had spoken to them briefly before they disappeared when they had had to break the news that Chief Superintendent Strange would not release funds to put the two young women into witness protection, asking what did they think Oxford CID was, Miami Vice. Morse and Lewis were so pissed of with this. The media on their back, taunting the investigating officer that he couldn’t find the two witnesses to the brutal gangland enforcer type murder of a businessman come criminal and a prostitute. This leak to the press, of course, made it doubly important they found the women before the murderer did, now the tabloids had conveniently told him he had witnesses. They disappeared two days ago.

Morse sighed and told Lewis to go home, it was late.

Lewis guessed Morse was going looking for the women in the very few red light areas there were in Oxford. So he insisted he was coming too.

After three tries to find the women in various places around Oxford there was one last place they knew off. They drove to a dark back street, a deserted, derelict factory looming darkly over the poorly lit street. As they turned in off the Cowley Road Lewis noticed a teenage boy, kicking a stone about, swinging a rucksack from his left hand. He didn’t mention anything.

At the other end of the street there were empty houses and only one working streetlight. A woman came up to the Jag and Morse wound down the window. She was annoyed they weren’t punters and refused to cooperate. Lewis threatened arrest. She told them she had not seen them for days.

Morse sighed. It was absolutely the last place to try in Oxford. Now they would have to try Reading, Swindon, High Wycombe, Banbury, unless of course they’ve gone to London, in which case they hadn’t a chance of locating them. Unlike the criminal underworld, Morse thought grimly. Lewis tried to be hopeful but this just infuriated Morse.

Feeling Morse’s frustration and anger, as they were about to leave Lewis pointed out the boy he’d spotted on the way in, now standing under the streetlight, rucksack against the wall next to a sleeping bag rolled up. He was throwing the stone up in the air and catching it. He was tall, blond, young, a bit dirty and unwashed looking. However, his hair was naturally blond and he had no piercing, he looked like a very respectable teenager if it hadn’t been for the fact he was alone in the red light district.

Morse glanced towards the direction Lewis indicated, and sighing, he stopped the car, muttering about how the boy looked about 14.

The boy approached the car so Morse wound down the window.

The boy smiled a slightly embarrassed smile and spoke.

“Hello sir. Maybe I can help you?” he had very crisp, posh English, thought Lewis, and sparkling blue eyes. He was very, very blond. And skinny.

“How could you help us, young man?” Morse asked.

“Well, that depends on what you’re looking for sir. Over there, in one of the empty houses, there are some men, if you’re looking for hash or crack, and then if you went to end of the road there are some...” he paused, to consider, “there are some ladies of the night, as it were.”

Morse smiled; he liked this young man immensely. Lewis thought he was a cocky, cheeky bugger who could do with a sound spanking, but he intended keeping that one to himself.

“Or,” he smiled hopefully, “if you don’t like women, or fancy a change, there’s always me.”

Ah, thought Lewis, I was afraid of this. He’s lucky he’s pimping himself and no one’s got to him. He heard Morse ask for what was on offer and how much. Does that count as entrapment, he wondered. Are we going to prosecute this boy or just scare him shitless and take him home to mummy? And he certainly sounds like a boy with a mummy not a mam.

“Well, £10 for a wank, £25 to go down on you, £50 to fuck me.” He looked in the car, pale blue eyes meeting Lewis’ dark blue ones. Lewis felt suddenly cold, as if he was meeting his destiny, like he felt at the Addiction gig when he first laid eyes on Val. Stupid! He was a happily married and the boy was a child. The boy continued, “Two of you would be extra. And you wear condoms.”

“Sounds fair enough to me,” said Morse. “What do you say Lewis?”

Lewis was about to say something, but Morse just cut him off, “Get in.”

The boy glanced back worriedly at his bag.

“I said in, now, if you want the money.”

The boy climbed in the back, folding gangling, awkward, long legs.

Morse turned around to look at the boy. “What do we call you, then?”

“James.”

“Well James, I’m Chief Inspector Morse and this is –”

“Fuck!” the boy legged it out of the car and ran off into the dark.

“Lewis!”

But Lewis didn’t need to be told; he was already chasing the boy, bringing him down in a clumsy rugby tackle.

“Get off me! Let go of me!”

“On your feet.”

Lewis hauled the boy to his feet and steered him back to the car, keeping a tight hold on him.

“Look! I’ve done nothing, I haven’t even...” the boy’s voice was rising in panic and Lewis thought there may be tears in his eyes. He pushed him in to the back of the car and got in after him.

“This is serious, James,” Morse said kindly. “You shouldn’t have run off like that. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Well, you’re under age as well as soliciting.”

“I’m not underage, I said I was sixteen.”

“I expect you know full well that the 1967 Sexual Offences Act permits homosexual acts between consenting adults over the age of 21.”

“I can’t be held accountable for the inequality and stupidity of the law. I said I was sixteen.”

“I like your spirit James. Do you have a surname?”

“What’s it to do with you?”

Morse sighed and started the engine. The boy started to panic and tried to get out, succeeding as Morse pulled away, rolling out of the moving car.

“Bloody bloody fool!” snapped Morse, putting on the break.

“Yes sir,” Lewis agreed. He got out of the car and went over to the boy, who was limping towards the streetlight, towards his possessions. He sat hugging his bag tightly, muttering, glaring at Lewis.

“Come on James.”

“You’re going to take me home, aren’t you?”

“That’s up to the Chief Inspector, James. It also depends if you are really sixteen or younger.”

“I’m fifteen. I’ll be sixteen in October.”

“That’s two months away. What are you doing out here selling yourself?”

“Renting. Women sell, men rent.”

“Thank you, you pedantic little sod, I do know. Get up then.” Lewis picked up the sleeping bag and offered to take the rucksack but the boy hugged it tighter. Instead he held out a hand to the boy. He took it and stood awkwardly. He’d bruised himself quite badly falling out of the car. “So, what are you doing here?”

“I’m hungry,” the boy whined. “My money ran out.”

“You do this a lot?”

“You would be my first.”

“Good. That’s good. We’re not going to have sex with you, but I’ll get my boss to stop at the nearest chippie and get you something to eat. Can’t say fairer than that.”

“You would.”

“What?”

“You would. With me. Have me. If your boss wasn’t around. I’ve seen that look in your eyes before in other men.”

“Listen, you precocious little bugger, I don’t break the law, I don’t betray my wife and I certainly do not take advantage of vulnerable little boys. Get in the car.”

Lewis pushed him into the back seat again, getting in next to him.

“Are you going to stay this time James, or shall I tell the sergeant to handcuff you?”

“No. I’ll stay. I just didn’t want to leave my bag.”

“There was a boy reported missing three days ago in Faringdon. James Hathaway aged fifteen. Would that be you, young man?”

“They bothered to report me, I’m flattered.” James looked out of the window.

“The lad’s hungry sir. Can we get him something to eat on the Cowley Road?”

“Of course, Lewis. What puzzles me James is that prostituting yourself seems to have been the first thing to enter your head when you were hungry. I’m sure most boys of fifteen would consider theft of some kind, directly from a shop, breaking and entering, or even mugging. And if not that, begging directly.”

“Well, you know what they say, pick something you’re good at.”

“Have experience at giving blow jobs do you, James?”

“No comment. I’m hungry.”

Morse pulled up outside the first chip shop they came to, pulling up just in front of a pelican crossing.

“Obviously being a Chief Inspector has its advantages,” James commented.

“Shut up,” Lewis said, opening the door. “Chips or what?”

As soon as Lewis left Morse turned to speak to James. “Why, James, you obviously have a good education, why throw it away?”

“I’m not. At least, I didn’t think I was. I’m saving my education. Or, at least... what are you going to do Inspector? You haven’t arrested me.”

“I haven’t decided that yet, James. How about you tell me why you ran away and why you’re prostituting yourself.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Oh. What exactly is offering to have sex with men for money if not prostitution, young man?”

“I hadn’t. You would have been the first,” he looked away and muttered something, Morse was very much afraid it sounded like, “or the first I would have seen the money.”

“Shall I tell you my options, James? We can take you back to the station, get the duty social worker and solicitor present and charge you with soliciting.”

“No. You can’t. I need to get back to school. I’ll lose my grants and bursary, I won’t get the scholarship for sixth form, I’ll...” by now James was having a full panic attack, struggling to breathe. “I need to get back to school, I won’t go to that bloody comprehensive, I need to do my GCSEs so I can get my A levels and...”

Morse struggled to unpick what James was saying, in between the gasping to breathe and shaky voice.

“Stop a minute James. Take a deep breath. And another. Good boy. Breathe now. Slowly. What school?”

James told him.

“That’s a very good school. Surprising, considering your address. But then, you have mentioned grants, bursary and scholarship. You must be a very clever, able young man. Far too intelligent to prostitute yourself.”

“I was hungry.”

“Yeah, well now you’ve got food,” said Lewis, having just opened the door. He handed James the chips, and got in next to him.

James ripped open the paper and attacked the chips like he was starving.

“When did you last eat?” Lewis asked.

“Yesterday morning,” he replied, mouthful of chips.

“Then slow down, lad, or you’ll make yourself sick.” Lewis handed him a can of Coke.

Morse started the car and pulled out into the traffic of a term time Friday evening on the Cowley Road.

“Time to go home, Lewis. I’ll take you to your car and then I’ll take young James home.”

“No! I’m not going home!” James’ reached out to the door handle but Lewis was ahead of him this time.

“My home, James. I’ll feed you some proper food.”

Lewis snorted at the ‘proper food’. “Sir, you can’t! That is so far...”

“What do you think I’m going to do Lewis?”

“Sir! Stop the car!”

Morse pulled over on the Plain. Lewis and he got out, Lewis passing the boy a Mars bar from his pocket first.

“What is this Lewis? The boy obviously is beginning to trust me. There’s something nasty behind the running away, I’m sure of it.”

“Why?”

“Why would a boy decide to prostitute himself at a young age? He’s being abused by his father.”

“Or his father won’t accept he’s gay,” countered Lewis.

“I don’t think it’s that simple, Lewis. He seems... vulnerable.”

“He’s fifteen, on the streets, hungry and selling himself, of course he’s vulnerable. And you don’t take vulnerable fifteen years old boys who are selling themselves home, Sir. Not if you value your career. At least, not without back up. Sir, I know your intentions are honourable and noble, but think how this would look, to the Chief Constable, to Strange, to his parents, to a bloody social worker, to the bloody press!”

“Lewis! Don’t you dare lecture me. I need you out of the way, or he’s never going to trust me.”

“And what is that supposed to mean Sir?”

“I’m not a fool, Lewis, I’ve noticed a long time ago that you bat of both teams, as it were. But the boy is fifteen.”

“I’m married. Happily married. How dare you Sir.”

“So you don’t deny looking.”

“I would never take advantage of someone so young and vulnerable, not anyone twice his age so vulnerable. Even if I was available, which I’m not.”

“But you don’t deny looking,” persisted Morse.

“Aye, he’s a gorgeous, leggy blond, what’s not to look at? But not like that, Sir, I wouldn’t...”

“He doesn’t know that.”

“Then maybe he needs to. The thing is Sir, if you suspect abuse and want to question the boy somewhere he feels safe, fine, but not alone. You trust me or we take him back to the station and hand him over to uniform and a social worker and let them get to the truth or we take him home and suss out the dad.”

“Fine. Have it your way. Stay.”

“Another thing, Sir.”

“What?”

“Do you have some food in?”

“I don’t know, Lewis, why?”

“You said you were going to feed him.”

“Oh? Then we must stop at a shop and you can buy something. Can you cook Lewis?”

“I can fry the lad a egg or too, but cook, no.”

“I can cook.”

Morse and Lewis turned around to see the boy leaning on the Jag’s bonnet.

“How long have you been there?” demanded Morse.

“Long enough. My dad isn’t sexually abusing me. And he doesn’t know I’m gay. He just... well, he’s a bastard in lots of ways, so I thought I’d just spend the summer on the streets until it was time to go back to school, if he lets me. He has these jealous rants sometimes, but my Mum normally gets him to see reason over the school, at least.”

“Why don’t you, I don’t know, stay with a friend?” asked Lewis.

“My Dad’s a farm labourer, we live in a tied cottage, how many friends do you think I have? Last summer I went to a friend, but it’s no longer an option. About as desirable as staying at home, to be brutally frank.”

“And prostitution is better?” asked Lewis, shocked, believing Morse was on to something here after all.

“Marginally. I was hungry and in control.”

“For about five minutes lad, before you were raped, pimped, trafficked or dead.”

“Lewis is right, James. Get back in the car now. You have two choices, you can tell us what you’re running from or we can take you home to Faringdon.”

James got back into the back seat of the Jag in the manner only a seriously stroppy teenager can, with much drama and glaring and door banging. Lewis got in the front this time, with Morse. Morse locked the back doors.

“Right then, James? Where to?”

James glared out of the window pointedly.

“Would you like more to eat?” asked Lewis.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve not had much for someone not eaten for nearly two days.”

“I said I was fine.”

“Okay. Best drive him home to Faringdon, Sir, if he won’t speak to us.”

“Lewis, I said I would take him home. He can get cleaned up, at least, even if he refuses to eat.”

“Suppose so Sir. He’s certainly a filthy little bugger, anyhow.”

“I’m not going to yours!” James shouted, trying the door handle, despite their driving up the High at about 30 miles an hour.

“James, you would be coming back to mine and having more than a bath and something to eat if we hadn’t been police officers. You think about that for a moment. You think about the two of us, not wanting to pay, or wanting to make money out of you, and the one of you, tired, weak and hungry. Think about it James.”

“So arrest me! Or let me go! I’m not going home!”

“Calm down James. Lewis, get in the back with him. Or better, you drive and I will. He doesn’t trust you.”

Morse pulled over in Longwall Street. Both he and Lewis turned to look at James, who stopped futilely trying to open the door and glared at them, tears in his eyes.

“I do trust the sergeant,” he said suddenly, quietly, sniffing. He looked at Lewis. “Don’t take me home. Let me go. I will go home in a month, tell them. I’ll come home to go back to school. Please let me go.”

“We can’t James. If you don’t feel safe at home, then perhaps we can find you a safe place...”

“Foster care? A children’s home? How will I get my scholarship paid? How will I get back to school? I’m doing 10 GCSEs, I’m going to do ‘A’ levels and go to Cambridge. I can’t do that in care!”

“You can’t do that on the streets either,” Lewis argued.

“I just need to survive a month, then I can go home to get ready to go to school. I know my Mum will make sure my Dad doesn’t stop me, she always does.”

“What makes you certain, James? She obviously only gets the summer with you, why would she want to let you out of her sight?”

“Oh.” The boy scowled and looked down. He hadn’t thought about his mother missing him, worrying even. It hurt to think of it.

Morse sighed and started the car again, moving it out into the traffic. James stared out of the window again, watching the colleges, the University Museum, the Parks, Park Town all roll past. Lewis wondered, as they drove past the Ferry junction, whether they were going to Morse’s, but they continued up the Banbury Road past the Summertown shops.

“Sir?”

“Lewis?”

“I thought we were going to yours?”

“You thought it a bad idea, and the boy obviously won’t feel safe.”

“This is hardly the way to Faringdon.”

“Nor it is, but there’s a transport cafe and service area on the A40/A34 junction. We can get the boy some food and decide whether we’re taking him to Kidlington or Faringdon, can’t we?” Morse sounded truly fed up, as if this should have been obvious to Lewis.

In the cafe Morse found a window table and indicated that James sat down. He looked expectantly at Lewis, who sighed and went and ordered three teas and three egg and chips, then found a payphone and told Val he wouldn’t be home for tea.

“Yeah. Sorry, love.

“No, not the murder. Sad case. We picked up a kid prostituting himself.

“Yeah. Himself, that’s right. Fifteen.

“Morse thinks he’s running from sexual abuse. I dunno.

“Vulnerable little sod. I say little, he’s tall. Skinny.

“What? Blond. Blue eyes.

“Not like that love.

“Don’t laugh!

“Oh, no, not Himself, no. Sees himself as a gallant knight, rescuing the poor kid.

“Dunno.

“No, we should. I told him.

“Yeah, well, I’ve gotta look out for him, haven’t I? Someone has to.

“See you when I see you.

“Love you too, pet. Bye.”

Lewis hung up to see the lad staring at him.

“What? You should be with the Chief Inspector.”

“I’m going to the toilet. He told me to see you first, so I don’t make a run for it.”

“Fine. Off you go then. I’ll wait here.”

“Aren’t you coming in with me?”

“What you going to do, climb out of the window?”

“There’s an idea.”

Lewis smiled. “Sarcastic little sod, aren’t you?”

“Only sometimes,” James replied in a serious, deadpan way.

Lewis waited. James didn’t come out. He went into the Gents. The back window was open. He looked out. He could see James talking to a truck driver. He was leaning on the cab, looking up at the driver, obvious even at the distance that he was flirting. Swearing, Lewis ran out, calling to Morse as he ran through the cafe and out of the front door.

As he approached the truck driver and James he pulled out his warrant card.

“I wasn’t doing nothin’, I weren’t gonna give him a lift or nothing,” the driver protested.

“Right,” Lewis said, staring at the driver with disapproval. “Come on James.” He took hold of the boy’s arm and pulled him back, shoving him on the seat and sitting next to him. Now his eggs were cold and congealed and his tea stone cold and he’d told Val not to bother keeping his tea warm.

“You seem determined to get yourself in trouble,” Morse said gently after Lewis told him what the boy had been up to. “Do you have any idea what a man like that would have done to you?”

“Yes,” James mumbled, looking down.

“Do you really, I wonder?” Morse said sadly.

James looked up and he glared hatefully. He said, with an air of triumph and glee, “Penetrate me, anally, hopefully wearing a condom, not giving a toss whether he hurt me, maybe on my knees, maybe bending me over a table or something, maybe on my back, pushing my legs up, unlikely to bother kissing me, but if he did it would have been sloppy and disgusting. It’s no big deal.”

“I think it’s a very big deal James. I think that’s why you’ve run away from home,” Morse said very gently.

“Does your father do that to you?” Lewis asked carefully.

“No.” James looked down again and started pushing the chips about his plate. “But he knows men,” he said so quietly that Morse and Lewis had to strain to catch what he was saying, “and they give him money. Every summer. Every Easter. Every Christmas. Happy bloody Christmases!”

“How long for James?” Lewis asked.

“Depends on when you count from.”

“I think we’ve heard enough Lewis. I think we need to speak to Mr. Hathaway.” Morse stood up, nodding to Lewis. They walked a little away from James.

“It’s not technically abuse, though, is it Sir?”

“It’s living on immoral earnings for starters, but not keeping your child safe is illegal, isn’t it Lewis, there’s whole rafts of child protection legislation, isn’t there?”

“I’m not sure sir. Child protection legislation changes all the time, but the government hasn’t signed the UN Charter on Children’s Rights, so it’s a grey area. But as you say, living on immoral earning is enough. The bastard!” Lewis concluded with feeling.

“Indeed Lewis. A complete bastard.”

They walked back to James and sat down again. Lewis forced himself to drink his cold tea. Morse ate a cold chip and nodded to James’ plate.

“Eat, James.”

“No thank you. What are you going to do? Arrest my Dad?”

“Would you like us to?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know the names of the men, I’m sorry.”

“When did it start?”

“My father started taking me to men the Christmas after my 13th birthday,” James said carefully. He didn’t add that his father had taken money from his old boss up to his 12th summer, after all His Lordship had paid for that first year at school and helped arrange the scholarships, so he didn’t want to jeopardise anything that would lose his place at school.

“Are you okay to go home James? Are you alright with us taking your father in for questioning?” Lewis asked gently.

“We may not charge him,” Morse said equally gently, “CPS may doubt we could get a conviction, which means we will have to release him. We have no evidence, you see, James, just your word. And I’m afraid defence lawyers make mincemeat of children’s testimonies.”

“I’m not a child!”

“In the eyes of the law you are.”

James shrugged. “What can he do to me he hasn’t already done?” He sighed. He suddenly wanted nothing more than a warm bath, his own bed and to see his mother. “Take me home, then.”

Lewis finally was allowed to inform uniform they had found a missing teenager and were taking him home. Once at James house, Joe Hathaway shook both policemen’s hand and took them into the front room whilst James’ mother just hugged him and kissed him and scolded him on the doorstep.

Morse immediately told James’ father they would like him to accompany them back to the station, they had questions to put to him concerning James’ well being and his earnings.

James’ mother stood, bewildered, as the two policemen came out with her husband, getting him in the back of the very nice car. She hugged herself and looked at her son, who was standing in the kitchen doorway eating a jam sandwich.

“I told them,” he said simply.

 

* * *

...James sat up, hugging his knees, resting his chin on them, staring intently at his lover, watching his face. “So?” he asked.

“Yeah, I do remember now,” Robbie said. “Just never made the connection – well, you forget, one small arrest that led nowhere.”

James sighed. “I recognized you at the airport, but I guessed – hoped – you wouldn’t remember me.”

“No. Well, maybe on some level. I thought you were gorgeous then.”

“When?”

“Both thens,” Robbie laughed.

“When I was fifteen?”

“More gorgeous now,” Robbie kissed him lightly on his nose. James rubbed his nose, glaring, looking serious. “I wouldn’t have done anything about it, but I am normal, a red bloodied male is allowed to look at a leggy blond teenager, you know?”

“Did you ever find them, those witnesses you were looking for? You know, when you found me?”

Robbie sighed deeply, “Aye. Well, the Met. did. In a ditch in Shorditch, dead, both of them, poor lasses. We never got a conviction on that one either, a bad week all round. Professional hit man, two years later Manchester CID got him, and he pleaded several others into account. Ours at the Randolph and the two girls and all. What about you and your mam? Were you okay when we released him. Could tell he slapped your mam about.”

“You know, he was angry, all shouting and bluster, and he did take his belt to me, but you scared him shitless. It stopped, after that. Came home at Christmas to none of it, ever again. So, thank you.” James snuggled up to his boss, hugging him tight.

“Good. That’s good. I suppose. But I still stand by my first impressions of you.”

“What?”

“That you are a pedantic, sarcastic sod and a cocky, cheeky bugger who needs a sound spanking!” Robbie said before rolling them over, with James lying underneath him, kissing him deeply before he could protest.


	2. James dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The discussion prompts a remembering...
> 
> This is the beginning of what James was running from at 15. Here he is 13.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV

It had been haunting him for years, and finally he had got it off his chest – yes, it had been the only way to admit he’d been lying. Lying about the amount of abuse, the years after he’d left Crevecoeur.

He came back from the shower to see Robbie asleep, snoring slightly, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. Perhaps Robbie had remembered anyway, and been keeping quiet too, waiting for him to bring up the subject.

James briefly wondered what would have happened if Morse and Lewis had not been cops, or worse, corrupt ones.

He made himself coffee and curled up in bed, trying to read. It was impossible to sleep. He couldn’t believe he’d finally let Robbie have him like that, but he was right, why only fear what he’d done with Mortmaigne, when so many other others had had him in so many positions. Robbie had been right, of course, from the start, because as soon as he’d been brave enough to open his eyes and seen Robbie looking at him with such tender devotion even as he fucked him it had made everything somehow...spiritual? God forgive him for thinking such things. He loved Robbie, felt safe with him, and he’d found that he loved the sex, it felt great, physically, and he knew Robbie loved him and would never hurt him, but to fuck face to face and to be able to look each to each other’s eyes and been... connected, soul to soul as body to body.

James’ eyelids began to droop and the book slid out of his fingers....

 

“Why do I have to put my school uniform on?”

“Coz you look smart. I need you to look smart, boy. Do as your told, Jamie sweetheart, please.”

“Dad! I’m on holiday!”

“Just...” a fist raised, and automatically he backed away. The fist lowered. “Just do as you’re told sweetie.”

James dragged himself off the sofa, where he’d been lying half watching Scooby Doo while reading The Hobbit and eating cornflakes dry straight from the box. His mum was at her cleaning job or else he’d have never been allowed to get away with it. As he went upstairs his Dad called for him to brush his hair and teeth, wash his face.

“Where’re we going?” he asked yet again as the rusty old Land Rover turned down a country lane off the A417, chugging up hill.

“Sweet Jesus, boy, you’re as bad now as you were ten years ago. Are we there yet?” he imitated, trying and failing to imitate his son’s crisp posh accent, picked up from his Mum, honed by his lordship, refined by posh public school.

A nice house. A good car in the drive, nothing fancy, but new, the sort a businessman might have. James vaguely knew he should be able to recognise cars, it being the sort of things boys did, like follow football and rugby, like cricket, look at pictures of girls... Not blush when the cricket captain smiled at him or think about the Bible as much he did. But he was quite happy reading the Bible, or fantasy, or poetry. Oh, he could play rugby and cricket enough to keep the bullies away, but being good at it was a necessary evil, not fun. Riding in this crappy car wasn’t fun. He wanted to do nothing but veg out reading and watching TV before his Gran came to stay for Christmas, making digs he was getting above his station and talking about all his ‘wonderful’ cousins. He never saw Martha and her Dad anymore, not since they moved to Oxford. Might have been Australia the way his Gran spoke of it.

He hated Christmas.

He loved the meaning of Christmas.

His feet crunched on the grass, the frost hadn’t melted all day. It was still below freezing. He wrapped his coat around him, teeth chattering. At least his Dad’s car had heating.

A man had opened the door and waved a greeting to his Dad. He was dressed in expensive clothes, slacks and the kind of tailor made shirt he’d seen on boys’ fathers at school. He had grey hair, thick though, not balding.

“Good to see you Hathaway. As true to your word. Began to doubt you.”

“Had to drive slow, sir, the ice, you see.”

His Dad had that disgustingly oily voice he had around the rich. What was this connection? Gambling? Petty theft?

“And you must be young James. You were right to be proud, Joe, his photo doesn’t do him justice. As pretty as an angel. Come in, come in.”

His Dad followed the man in and pulled James in after. The living room was centred around a huge old fireplace, fire alight. Either side were inglenooks. James wanted to crawl inside one, but knew he was probably a little elderly for such things.

“Scotch?”

“Ta.”

“James? A coke? Lemonade?”

“Um. No thank you.”

“Well, my wife will be back in just under three hours so let’s get started.”

“An hour I said,” his Dad said.

“A hundred an hour, you said. Let’s see how it goes, shall we? Does he know?” The man nodded his head in his direction.

“No. But he’s a good boy. A fast learner.”

“Clever as well as beautiful then? But some experience, you said?”

“Yeah, but not for a while, not since the beginning of summer.”

James had been half following this conversation, looking at the first editions in the mahogany bookcase. He began to feel hollow in his stomach.

“Damaged goods, then? Shame, I like them fresh.”

James began to shake. He slowly edged to the door. His Dad was there before him, slamming it into his face.

“Where are you going Jamie, my sweetheart?”

“Dad? What’s going on?”

“Come on, bring him upstairs.”

His Dad’s grip was a vice on his arm as he towed James upstairs, following the man to a bedroom with a double bed and a couple of nightstands and a ornate chest in the diamond paned window.

“Be good. Do as you’re told. We need the money. I’m three months behind with the rent; do you want to be homeless for Christmas? Do you think your posh school would take you back from a homeless shelter, eh?”

“Dad?”

The man peeled ten ten pound notes from his wallet and handed them to his father. “Make yourself at home, help yourself to more whisky, watch the TV.”

“Remember my rules, yeah?”

“Of course, discretion is my middle name.”

His Dad left the room.

“Dad?!” James yelled.

The man locked the door and came over to James, cupping his chin and looking at him.

“Beautiful. Lovely.”

James pulled away and hammered on the door. “Dad! Dad! Dad!” he shrieked, pummelling the door with the flat of his hand. The man came behind him and pressed himself up to his back. James could feel the man’s erection pressing into him.

“Your father said you are a good boy, obedient, that you know how to do as your told and keep quiet,” he hissed in James’ ear.

“Daddy!” James yelled, voice rising so high with fear he did sound ten years younger, three not thirteen.

“S’sh,” a hand came over his mouth. “I promised your father I won’t mark you. How can I keep my promise if you won’t do as you’re told? Shall we get you out of this smart uniform, shall we? Then we can play some nice games. Won’t that be nice?”

No, thought James, despairing. The same games as in the Summerhouse, he supposed. He let his body go limp and relaxed as he could, closing his eyes and sending his mind as far as he could, thinking about the book he’d been reading, travelling to Middle Earth, while this man would do awful things here, in this Earth.

Like a robot, his eyes glazed when he was told to open them, he undressed himself, never looking at the man’s hungry eyes or erect penis...

 

All the way back James looked out of the window, not at his father, tears sliding down his cheeks.

Outside their house his Dad took him in his arms and held him and stroked his hair. “We need the money my Jamie boy, we need the money. It’s not like you haven’t already done it is it? Best not say anything to your mother about the money, eh? It’ll only worry her.

 

Later that night, when his Dad was at the pub and James in bed his mother crept into his room.

“James?” she ruffled his hair. “I know you’re only pretending to be asleep, your light was on until you heard my footsteps. What’s this?” She showed him his briefs, stained at the back with blood and shit.

“I, um...”

“Did your father take you to Crevecoeur? I knew that money wasn’t a win on the horses.”

“He told me... No Mum, we didn’t go back to Crevecoeur. I was ill, I... I’m sorry, you must think me a baby...”

“James, this is blood. If you’re telling me you just had an ‘accident’ you need to see the doctor, because you might have cancer love.”

James stared.

“But I know this was no ‘accident’ like that. His lordship never made you bleed before. I suppose it’s a long time and... James, are you badly hurt? Can I see sweetheart?”

“No! Mum! No! And we didn’t go to Crevecoeur, and I don’t think Dad will want you to take me to a doctor and...”

“Did his lordship come here, when I was out? And why did you wear your school uniform, for Godssake?”

“Augustus never came here. I’ve not seen him since the day we left. Dad took me to his friend’s house. He said I had to look smart.”

“James! My baby! Did he... oh God, did he...”

“Dad said not to tell you Mum. I don’t want him to take his belt to me tonight. Please. Just leave me alone. Please!” James ended by screaming in her face.

 

“Please! Go! No! Dad! Daddy! Please!”

“James? James! Wake up love. Come on, please.” Robbie looked down into James’ confused eyes, filled with tears. “That’s it. Wake up. I’m here love. I’m here. It’s me. S’sh. You’re safe. It’s just a dream, only a dream.”

“Not just a dream!” he said, throwing his arms around Robbie and squeezing for dear life, like a drowning man.

“Ah,” said Robbie, understanding. “But a long, long time ago. I’m here now, pet. No one is going to hurt you ever again. S’sh. I love you. I’m sorry I pushed you to... you know.”

“It’s fine, I’m fine. I just remembered; it was talking about me running away, not what we did. Promise. I love you so much.”

“It’s alright, I’m here. S’sh. Go back to sleep now. I’ll hold you.” Robbie kissed the top of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually my recurrent dream probably started by a story I'm struggling with in response to the community:lewis_challenge over on live journal. Hopefully writing it down will get it out of my system and move me past my writers block.
> 
> And maybe shed some light on the mystery that is James Hathaway.


	3. The interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1994, Morse and Lewis interview James' father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse was created by Colin Dexter and belongs to him and ITV
> 
> Lewis, likewise

Joseph Hathaway sat at the table in a dingy, paint peeled grey and pale green room, long overdue of a proper clean and a lick of paint. He was chain smoking, his tea in front of him cold and untouched. He glared across the table at the two policemen. They had left him alone apart from the silent uniformed constable who stood at the back, all the while looking at Joe as if he were pond scum.

The two plain clothes CID officers were here now, the other side of the table, but they too were silent. The younger, dark haired, sergeant sat down opposite him, taking out a notebook and pencil, licking its end before carefully placing it on the table next to the notebook and glaring at him in what he presumably hoped was a menacing manner. The sergeant did not hope in vain, Joe Hathaway felt menaced all right.

The older, silver haired bloke, the one in the posh suit and the owner of the excellent classic Jag, stood at the back, leaning on the long table under the high window. He was sighing sadly and looking at Joe as if he could not quite believe something so odious could exist.

Eventually Joe could take the silence no longer. He snapped,

“’Ere, I don’t know why I’m here, what’s my boy Jamie been saying then? He lies, you know? For attention.”

“I don’t think so,” the Chief Inspector replied coldly. “Not over this matter, I assure you.”

“Wha’? Wha’? I suppose he’s said I beat him? So wha’? You have to discipline him, he’s a jumped up, arrogant shit. It ain’t against the law to give your kids a slap is it?”

“It’s a grey area, Mr. Hathaway, a fine line between discipline and abuse,” the Inspector replied coldly.

“And there are better ways, too. You don’t need to hit your kids!” the younger, Geordie, one snapped. He was angry. “But you’re not here about that, Mr. Hathaway. Your son has mentioned something about you taking your belt to him, yeah, but it’s his other allegations that concern us.”

“But if you wish to admit to physical abuse, we would be more than willing to charge you, wouldn’t we Lewis?”

“Oh yes Sir.”

“Wha’? I never said nothing.... What allegations? I’ve said he’s an awkward, arrogant, imaginative, lying sod. He looks down on me and believe me, he lies like breathing.”

“In a word, Mr. Hathaway,” Chief Inspector Morse said, “pimping.”

“Wha’?”

“You’ve been pimping your child to paedophiles!” Lewis growled, half standing up and leaning over the desk, fists balled.

“Lewis,” warned his superior officer, “calm down.”

“Pimped?” Joe Hathaway yelled, outraged “What is that supposed to mean?”

“As in living off immoral earnings. In this case, allowing men to have sexual relations with your son, with your child! With your fifteen year old child!”

“Lewis,” Morse warned again. “My sergeant is a father of two children about the same age as your son. He reacts emotionally to the idea of a father allowing men to anally and orally penetrate his son for money, naturally enough.”

“Look, Jamie said that? You can’t believe that? Maybe at that posh school he might let some of those rich kids... Yeah, I can see him doing that, he’s always been a bit poofy, even as a small kid, but me...? Let...? No way! I told you my son lies!”

“Do you dispute his allegation then?”

“Of course I fucking dispute it!”

Joe Hathaway folded his arms and glared coldly, remaining silent as Lewis listed all they had learnt about their detainee over the past hour.

Previously employed as an estate manager for the Crevecoeur Hall Estate, dismissed for increasing incompetence caused by heavy intake of alcohol, given no reference. Following that a succession of farm labouring and building site labour, nothing permanent. Known to several bookies and a frequent customer of both pubs and the off licence in his village. Often ran up huge debts and usually behind with the rent during term time, but all debts always paid during the school holidays.

Joseph Hathaway said nothing more. Nothing could provoke him. They threw him in the cells overnight and interviewed him again the following morning where he grew angry and then tearful that they could suggest he would allow anyone to hurt ‘his Jamie’. He most certainly did not confess. All Morse and Lewis had was an allegation from a schoolboy, not even a formal interview statement conducted with a child protection officer and a social worker. After three nights on the streets, and the fact that they had picked him up for prostituting himself, even a forensic medical examination that gave definitive evidence would be argued by any defence lawyer to be caused by those three nights on the streets as a runaway, or even from consensual acts with a boy of similar age.

Morse had no choice but to release the boy’s father but he didn’t have to like it. Lewis was furious with his boss, shaking with rage, yelling at him, his knuckles white and body quivering with the outrage and disgust of it. They had just left that poor, poor boy to his fate. Morse stood there, taking all the abuse and vitriol under Lewis’ storm of anger until it had blown itself out.

“I know Lewis, I know,” Morse said sadly after Lewis calmed down. “But there is nothing we can do, believe me, none is as sorry as I. But what can we do? Pray, I suppose, if either of us believed. Do you believe in something, Lewis? I can never tell.”

Lewis shrugged. “Dunno Sir.”

Morse slapped him on the back. “Come on Lewis, it’s almost lunch time. I’ll buy you a pint.”

“Right Sir. Do you mean actually pay for it, or would that be me, then?”

“No, Lewis. I’m paying.”


	4. Morse writes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Oxford, 2010...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse was created by Colin Dexter and belongs to him and ITV
> 
> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV

A few days later, back in Oxford in James’ flat, Robbie watched, bemused, as James silently pulled shoes and screwed up old jeans and a blanket from the bottom of his wardrobe, retrieving an old shoe box. He opened it, carefully placing the lid next to it before he took out a selection of fantasy war gaming figures, reverently placing them upright on the lid before pulling out a bundle of letters tied together with a blue shoe lace. He undid the lace and pulled off the top letter. Robbie recognised the handwriting. Still silent, James unfolded the letter and handed it to his fiancé. It was dated a few weeks before Morse’s death. As he read he could hear the man’s voice clearly in his mind:

 

My dear James,

I must apologise for the lack of letters over the past few months. You were indeed right to be concerned for my well being. I have been in hospital. The drink, of course. The bloody doctor has me on a ridiculous diet, no beer, no fine malts, no decent food, just bland stodge and water. Also, I must monitor my blood sugar and if needed self inject the bloody insulin. I hate needles. I wouldn’t bother at all if I hadn’t had the most wonderful chance meeting during a case earlier this year.

There is no fool like an old fool James, and I am most certainly a foolish old man, falling in love like a teenager. She is perfect for me, a fellow Wagnerian with a fondness for crosswords. She is beautiful, charming, graceful, and intelligent. Typical bloody me, to fall so heavily when it is too late. I have even told her my name, in case you need proof as to how far this old man has fallen.

Lewis has been most worried about me, clucking around like an old mother hen. To be honest, I worry about him, too. Oh, I know he has the irrepressible Valerie to look after him, and God knows I’ve chased all the senior officers I could to ensure his promotion, but what will the stupid sod do without me to correct his grammar and fuss over.

I fear this may well be the last letter you will receive from me for a long time, if ever. With this being the case, and because you will never hear it from where you should, allow me to tell you how proud I am of you James. In the five years of our correspondence you have accomplished so much. I do not mean only your fine collection of GCSEs, ‘A’ levels, piano and guitar music grades and of course your place at Cambridge, although all that I am so proud of for you. I told you when we met you were a bright boy. And indeed you still are, a very bright young man.

You have come so far James, despite your dreadful childhood. Yes, your first year up at Cambridge was difficult. Those two occasions when you phoned me from hospital, I couldn’t have felt more heart broken than if you had been my own kin. As you know, I did lose my own dear niece to the very same as your, thankfully, failed attempts. But you have stared into the abyss and moved into the light. I am proud of you.

Of course I watched the boat race, I always do. I must confess to have felt very conflicted at first, but after a while I happily moved to the once only situation of supporting the other place. Again, I was so proud of you.

It saddened me to read that you have decided to drop the piano entirely in favour of the guitar. Given your unhappy associations I can entirely understand, of course.

Likewise, I must confess to feeling conflicted about your vocation. I have always respected your faith James, and I can understand why you say you feel God is calling you, even though, as you are aware, I do not share your faith. Having said that, in the last few months I find myself drawn back to the faith of my mother, to my upbringing as a Quaker. In such a train of thought, may I be allowed to make two humble observations concerning your vocation, I would not presume to talk you out of it.

Firstly, perhaps you might consider remaining at Cambridge as a research fellow. I do think that as a priest you would be perhaps too thoughtful and pursuing theology in a more abstract, philosophical manner would suit your temperament better. Having said that, secondly, I feel also that you would be a little too restless in the priesthood. What I wish for you more than anything, my dearest boy, is that you would accept yourself for who you really are, warts and all. Forgive the agnostic Quaker for pointing it out to you, but I truly do not believe homosexuality to be a sin, I believe those of such inclinations were born that way, and thus, theologically speaking, were created by God to be such beings. I hope that one day you could learn to be that man God wants you to be and find a good man to settle down with, to love and cherish you. You have sadly lacked much in the way of cherishing and loving so far in your short life and you do deserve it. We all do. We are all God’s creatures, are we not?

But hark at me, typical bloody me, preaching, yet here I am, fast approaching sixty and only finally met the woman of my dreams. And such a lovely woman she is too, although she and Lewis do sometimes like to gang up on me to tease me a while. I suppose I have always been somewhat pompous and an easy target for such ribbing.

In conclusion please allow me to reiterate how proud I am of all your accomplishments. I mean it completely, and if no one else is there to say it when you graduate with that first you, without question, will get, remember that I am proud of you. Please do not worry for me, I am happy and quite content, but if it comforts you to do so, please pray for me. However, no novenas to Our Lady, please, that would trouble my Quaker soul.

All my best wishes for your future James.

As ever, yours,

E. Morse


End file.
